D&D: The Heather and the Harpies

Not far from here, there is a mountain. Atop that mountain, instead of harsh, jagged peaks, there is a flat patch of soft, green land. The soil is rich and fertile, and the heathers that grow there are the finest that can be found.

Not long ago, the dwarves who made their homes in the mountain's roots would dream of climbing the slopes, harvesting the mountain's sweet heathers, and taking them back to their stills to flavour their spirits. However, they seldom made the climb, and those who did rarely returned. The mountaintop was beset by harpies, and the foul beasts would kill and devour any dwarf who ventured too far skywards.

In the village at the foot of the mountain, there lived three brothers. The eldest brother was the strongest warrior in the village, and the other villagers said that if anyone could defeat the harpies, surely it was him. So, keen to find fame and fortune, he put on his armour, slung his axe over his shoulder and set off, up the mountain.

Less than a day later the eldest brother returned, his armour scratched and his skin bloody. He had slain many of the harpies, he said, but there seemed to be no limit to their numbers, and eventually he was forced to flee. Disappointed, the villagers turned to the second brother, who was known to be the fiercest warrior in the village. Hoping to best his brother and find glory for himself, he put on his own armour, took up his broadsword, and set off for the mountaintop. A few hours later, however, he too returned, lucky to have escaped with his life.

With the village's two most respected warriors defeated, the villagers despaired. To everyone's surprise, the youngest of the three brothers, who was not a warrior at all, but rather a talented craftsman, announced that he would go to the mountaintop and drive out the harpies. His older brothers laughed in his face.

"You?" They jeered; "What can you do? Stay in your forge, little brother, and make yourself useful crafting weapons and armour for us real warriors."

But the younger brother was not deterred. He was quite accustomed to his brothers' bullying. He took up the sword, shield, and armour he had crafted himself, along with a large sack, and set off in the opposite direction, away from the mountain. His brothers mocked him further when they saw him going the wrong way, but he took no notice.

He walked downhill, until he reached the caves at the ocean's edge. He knew the caves to be infested with goblins, and he went right inside. Now, even for the most inexperienced dwarven warrior, goblins are child's play; particularly if that dwarven warrior happens to be equipped with the most exquisitely crafted armour and weaponry in all the land, as this one was. Within an hour, the younger brother had slain several dozen. He tossed them into the sack, and dragged them back to his forge. There, he set about stripping the flesh from their bones, which he then began to fashion into something different altogether. He used every part of the goblin, even boiling down their fat to create a sort of glue to hold the bones together. He hacked and carved and shaped and crafted for an entire day, and then, under cover of darkness, he dragged his creation up the mountain, left it there, and went to bed.

He was awoken at dawn by the sound of cheering. Outside, all the villagers were gathered on the green, and in the centre of the crowd he saw his two older brothers.

"Behold!" They cried; "Look upon the heroes who have driven out the harpies from the mountain! Come, gaze upon our triumph!" And with that, they set off for the mountaintop; the rest of the villagers following excitedly.

When the crowd reached the final approach to the mountaintop, they were greeted with a truly astounding sight. Upon the flat summit of the mountain stood a gargantuan figure, some fifteen feet tall, hewn from bone and clad in tattered, grey skin. The two older brothers stood to either side of the effigy. It was clear to the young dwarf that his two brothers had followed him up the mountainside the previous night, and now meant to take the credit for his work.

"See!" The older brothers gloated; "The harpies dare not come for us, because, as surely everyone knows, harpies are terrified of giants! We can even stand upon the mountaintop without need for armour!"

The villagers rejoiced, cheering and laughing, all except for the younger brother. He was not angry either, though. He simply watched, smiling, as the sun rose over the horizon, creeping over the mountain, bathing the bone giant in its rays. The giant creaked, swayed, and then abruptly fell, crumbling into nothing more than a pile of dry, rattling bones. No sooner than the last bone had hit the ground, could the sounds of shrieking and leathery wings be heard upon the wind. The two older brothers tried to make for the cover and safety of the mountainside, but were caught up in an enormous flock of cackling harpies, and were torn to shreds instantly. The other villagers were shocked and dismayed to see their two finest warriors killed before their eyes. Not the youngest brother, though. After all, surely everyone knew that glue made from goblin fat will hold fast in darkness, but fizzle away to nothing in the light of the sun?

By Tom Hunt

D&D: The Fisherman's Tale

There was once a dwarf who made his living as a fisherman. Now, as you'll know, dwarves are always the best in the world at their chosen profession, and this dwarf was no exception. Every day, he brought in a huge haul of fresh fish, and he soon became very wealthy indeed. However, like any successful dwarf, he had a great many enemies. So as not to forget any, he sensibly wrote down all of his grudges and grievances in a great, heavy ledger, which he called his 'grudge book'.

One day, while out fishing in his boat, the fisherman caught a magic fish. He plucked it from the net, and before he could sling it into his basket, the fish cried out:

"Oh, fisherman fine

My life is thine

Show mercy

Spare this skin of mine!"

The fisherman caught fish every single day of his life, but he had never before encountered one that talked, let alone one that rhymed. Intrigued, he asked the fish;

"How will you repay me if I spare your life, fish?"

The fish replied:

"If you'll release me from your hold

No more shall you want for gold."

The fisherman smiled.

"I don't want for gold now. I'm quite wealthy already, and I grow wealthier each day. Try again, fish."

The fish gulped, and spoke again:

"Release me back into the sea

And all my kind will flock to thee."

The fisherman laughed.

"Your kind already do flock to me, little fish. Haven't you heard? I'm the greatest fisherman on my island, and the fishermen of my island are the greatest in the world. One last chance."

Panicking now, the fish cast its eye over the fisherman's little boat, and then said:

"Spare me from the butcher's hook

And I'll replace that heavy book!"

This last offer puzzled the fisherman. The fish explained that if he spared its life, it would memorise each one of his grudges and grievances for him, so he'd have no need of a big heavy book.

The fisherman thought about the fish's offer. The book was very heavy, for he had a great many grudges to remember. His boat was only small, and lately he had begun to notice it sat awfully low in the water, most likely thanks to the weight of the book. Reasoning that without the book he'd have room on board for a bigger catch, he decided to take the fish up on its offer. So, he slipped it into his pocket, and sailed back to shore.

The next few years were good to the fisherman. The fish kept its word, and remembered all of his grudges for him. Without the book weighing down his boat, the fisherman was able to bring in an even bigger haul, and he grew wealthier than ever before.

One day at sundown, the fisherman was reeling in his net after a long and fruitful day's work, when the fish cried out from his pocket:

"Behold, I say, look overboard

That there's the one who stole your hoard!"

The fisherman peered over the edge of his boat, and true enough, beneath the surface of the water was a proud-looking dwarf, smiling and dressed in finery the likes of which the fisherman had become inclined to adorn himself with. The fisherman couldn't remember having been robbed, but he had no book to consult, and the other dwarf's garments and trappings seemed far too similar to his own to be a coincidence. So, filled with rage, the fisherman threw himself down upon the other dwarf faster and harder than a blacksmith's hammer. As soon as he hit the surface of the water, the magic fish darted out from his pocket and vanished, as did the image of the other dwarf. Just as the fisherman realised his mistake, all the fish in the sea flocked to him to nibble and gnaw the flesh from his bones, and he never wanted for gold again.

Tom Hunt

Edit: Yes I am aware there should be a boat.... sorry Tom, one can only question my commitment.

IHMN: Intro "The Pick Up"

Captain Kamikaze and the Flying Squirrel

The Captain awaited his butler's response, and while he awaited it, he did two things. One was to think about evil. He thought about evil the way a butcher thinks about steak. The other thing he did was to absent-mindedly swing his legs as they dangled over the edge of his swivel chair. He stopped this abruptly, however, upon realising that as well as not looking very villainous, it might undermine the considerable gravitas he had just accrued by swivelling dramatically around.

                "It's good, sir. Very good. Your most fiendish work to date, I daresay. But perhaps I might make a suggestion?"

                He shifted his weight in the chair and smiled. Milton had never been intimidated by his arch-villain status, but had always been polite enough to pretend. With one hand, he waved the butler on; the other nursed an exquisite brandy glass.

                "Well, sir, the part where you have your nemesis restrained, and you victoriously explain the minutiae of your nefarious scheme to him?" The Captain nodded and leaned forward, stroking his goatee. "I thought perhaps you might... withhold a few of the more sensitive details." The Captain's already furrowed brow somehow furrowed in on itself all over again.

                "I see. Which details did you have in mind?"

                "Well sir, since you ask, I was actually thinking you might withhold almost all of them. Until the plan comes to fruition. Just to be safe, sir."

                "Hmmm." The Captain made a concerted effort to unfurl his brow as he spoke. "Milton, you know I respect your opinion like no other. But there are aspects of the work I do that I am afraid you simply cannot understand. An element of pageantry is expected of a man in my position. One has to observe a certain etiquette." Pleased with his answer, he leaned back; placing his large, black boots on his desk and swirling his brandy. Milton nodded sagely.

                "Of course, sir. Far be it from me to suppose to comprehend the mysterious ways in which a villain moves. Shall I bring in your elevenses, sir?"

                "Thank you Milton, I think that would be best. If it weren't for you, I shouldn't think I'd remember to eat at all." The Captain sighed. "Evil is a demanding mistress."

                "That I understand all too well, sir. Having served your family for three generations, one thing I can attest to is the terrible strain a career in villainy can place on a man." As he spoke, Milton crossed the room and pushed a button, calling the dumbwaiter. A few seconds later, he opened the hatch and removed a silver tray, on which was laid cutlery, a small decanter of brandy, and a plate covered by an elegant cloche. "One must keep one's strength up, and enjoy the small pleasures where one can." As he carried the tray over to the desk, the Captain's eyes were drawn to the cloche. He frowned up at Milton, whose face gave nothing away.

                "You didn't?"

                The butler remained expressionless.

                "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, sir."

                The Captain snatched the silver cover from the plate to reveal a cake of breathtaking beauty; richly dark, majestically risen and topped with icing smooth as untrodden snow, yet black as obsidian.

                "You devil..." he managed under his breath.

                "Coffee and walnut, with a dark chocolate ganache" said the butler in reply. "Still your favourite, I hope?" The Captain appeared to be lost for words. "Happy birthday, sir."

                Snapping from his reverie, the Captain beamed up at his butler.

                "Did you bake it yourself, Milton?" Milton nodded humbly.

                "Last night, sir. You were generous enough to give me the evening off, after all."

                "Oh, Milton. Where on earth would I be without you? It's magnificent. And to think, you managed to keep it a secret from me all morning! You sly dog, I had no idea."

                "Discretion is a man in my line of work's proudest asset, sir." Milton raised an eyebrow. "Besides, a butler hasn't time for talk. He simply devotes himself to the task before him, that his results may speak for themselves." He gestured toward the Captain's glass. "Perhaps sir would care for a top-up?"

                "Yes. Yes, I think that would be best." The Captain's reply was sober and measured, and as he watched Milton pour brandy into the glass in front of him, he pondered the butler's words. They had given him much to ponder. But then, that was to be expected. What kind of self-respecting arch-villain would employ a butler who wasn't both shrewd and insightful? He picked up the glass, and raised it. "Here's to you, Milton. You, your boundless wisdom, and your infinite tact." He tipped his head back and drained the glass.

                "You do me great honour, sir." Milton smiled. "Now, I really must go and see to the prisoner." The Captain silently nodded, and waited until the butler had closed the door behind him before allowing the acrid brown liquid to pour from his wincing mouth back into the glass.

* * *

                "And that, Flying Squirrel, is how you will die."

                Captain Kamikaze had just told the (in his opinion unfortunately named) superhero bound to the chair opposite him his entire master plan. Every detail. He sat back and waited for the elation; for the indulgent satisfaction to engulf him. Instead, he found himself whimsically half-remembering being a small boy, and how one Christmas he had crept, under cover of dusk, from the quiet of his playroom to the towering mantel of the lounge. With trembling hands and many a nervous glance over his shoulder, he had carefully opened every door of his advent calendar. It was the thirtieth of November. He had gorged on the chocolate, each piece more delicious and darkly irresistible than the last, until his face and hands were smeared brown and his belly full. He had felt no joy. The delight he had experienced as he devoured the chocolate had gone along with it, and he was left bilious, guilty, and bereft. His parents had been busy plotting evil in the study, and so it was their young butler who had found him, sticky and ashamed, his legs crossed and his head hung low in the shadow of the fireplace. The man sighed, but said nothing as he took the boy's tacky hand in his own and led him to the washroom, where he drew him a hot bath with bubbles, and then put him to bed. His parents never found out, but he awoke each morning that December feeling regretful. Strange, thought the Captain, that this childhood memory should revisit him in what was supposed to be his moment of glory. Strange, and unfortunate. Still, one had to look on the bright side. The dramatic swivel-around had gone very well.

                "You'll never get away with this, Kamikaze" growled the masked man in the other chair. He played his part well, the Captain thought. He knew Flying Squirrel wasn't the most competent hero in the field, but his patter was decent. He knew the steps.

                "Au contraire, my mammalian friend." The corner of the Captain's mouth twitched. The fact that he didn't really speak French was of great personal embarrassment to him. "You see, I think you'll find that this time, I've covered all the bases. It's game, set, and match."

                "Couple of things right off the bat, Captain." Flying Squirrel delivered his trash talk with practised certainty. "Confused sporting metaphors aside; we're all mammalian. I'm a mammal, you're a mammal, he's a mammal, she's a mammal. We're mammalian." The Captain frowned.

                "Well, then I wasn't wrong." he replied; unsure.

                "No, just redundant." Flying Squirrel fought to conceal his smugness. Heroes are not smug. The Captain scowled, and rose from his chair to walk languorously over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the interrogation room. He gazed out as he spoke.

                "This is all terribly out of character, Flying Squirrel. I'd expect this kind of pedantry from the Grammar Hammer, or Miss Ellipsis, perhaps. Don't you have some nuts to hide?" He smirked. Among villains, smugness is encouraged. Flying Squirrel fixed him with a steely glare, every inch the hero.

                "I have nothing to hide, Kamikaze. Not when I have right on my side."

                The boy had done his homework. Whatever else Captain Kamikaze thought of his prisoner, there was no denying that his banter was impeccable. He had really put the hours in. In fact, at times, it sounded almost too rehearsed.

                "Save it for tomorrow. Those will make wonderful last words. Goodnight, Flying Squirrel."

* * *

                "Milton, you fiend, you've outdone yourself. This icing is evil incarnate!" The Captain reclined in his study with a thick, black slab of birthday cake. He had spent the morning poring meticulously over CCTV footage, and was immensely glad of a break for elevenses.

                "You're too kind sir. It's really just a simple ganache." The butler replied from the doorway. "Busy researching, sir?"

                The Captain groaned and slumped back in his chair.

                "Just come here and look at this. Tell me what you see."

                The monitor was displaying looped footage of Flying Squirrel's attempt to break into the Kamikaze estate. The recording showed him adequately negotiating the perimeter fence and entering the grounds, but then fleeing in apparent terror from a relatively modest contingent of guard dogs. Minutes later, security staff arrived to rescue him from the large stone water feature he had climbed to escape the hounds' snapping jaws. In the video, he appeared to put up only a token resistance, his body language expressing more gratitude than anything else as the henchmen cuffed him and bundled him into the back of a van. Quite a departure, mused the Captain, from the fire-eyed, acid-tongued crusader for justice he had faced off with in the interrogation room last night.

                "Well?" he enquired of his butler. "What do you see?"

                "What I see, sir," Milton sighed; "is a young man very taken with the idea of being a superhero, but who might do well to think about exploring a different avenue of employment entirely."

                "Yes." The Captain nodded slowly. "Tragic, isn't it? All that wasted time." The old butler's brow creased in thought.

                "Oh, I don't know about that, sir. I come from a long line of butlers. When I was a boy, there was never any doubt as to what would be my profession. To tell the truth, sir, I'm a little envious of those free to make their own mistakes." Milton straightened up, stepping away from the monitor. "No, sir, the real tragedy would be if that young man were to grow old and never find the courage to admit to himself that perhaps he got it wrong." He turned to the Captain, eyebrows raised. "Not much danger of that, though, sir; he'll be dead by the end of the day. You do still mean to execute him, sir?" The Captain was slow in realising he had been asked a question. When he replied, his tone was sombre and detached.

                "I... yes. Yes of course, Milton. Later today." Milton frowned.

                "If you don't mind me saying so, sir, you don't seem terribly excited about the idea. You could always postpone the plan if you're having second thoughts? Or cancel it entirely, even?" The Captain scowled.

                "Don't be ridiculous, Milton, of course I couldn't. Flying Squirrel will be executed today. What kind of a villain would explain his scheme to his nemesis, and then change his mind? Why, no kind of villain at all!"

                The butler apologised and went to prepare luncheon. The Captain's words hung in the air long after he had gone.

               

* * *

                Flying Squirrel's head turned with a stiffness symptomatic of a night spent tied to a chair. He winced as he watched the Captain pace around the room. The Captain failed to notice this and continued to pace, oblivious to the very mild torture he was inflicting on his charge.

                "Cut to the chase, Kamikaze. You villains are so indulgent."

                "You surprise me, Flying Squirrel. Are you so eager to die?" The Captain smiled. "A victory like this is to be savoured, like a fine brandy." He lifted his glass as though to take a sip, but thought better of it at the last moment and opted instead to hold it under his nose and inhale the noxious fumes with a self-satisfied expression on his face. "Mmm. A glorious bouquet." He turned and gazed out of the window, his back to the prisoner. In truth, he hadn't been savouring his victory in the slightest. He knew he should be, but he couldn't seem to focus on the task in hand.

                "Spare me the showboating, Captain. Consider it a last request."

                The young hero spoke like a man unafraid of death, but the Captain knew that if he turned to look at him he would see sweat-drenched hair, or a knitted brow, or trembling hands; tell-tale signs of fear. Perhaps, he reasoned, that would help him get into the spirit of things. Plus, if he whirled around quickly enough, his cape might do that sweeping thing he liked. Mustering all the malevolent grandeur at his disposal, he spun around to face his nemesis.

                His eyes came to rest on Flying Squirrel just in time to catch him absent-mindedly swinging his legs as they dangled over the edge of his seat.

                Of course, he stopped rather sheepishly as soon as he realised his captor could see what he was doing. The Captain sighed. He walked slowly across the room, and sat down heavily in the seat opposite the hero. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. 

                "Why do you do it?"

                Flying Squirrel looked blankly at him.

                "Do what?"

                "This. All of it. Why?"

                "Why?" The young hero was perplexed. "Well, obviously I needed to gain access to your estate if I was to stand any chance of foiling your..."

                "Nefarious scheme, yes, I know." the Captain interrupted. "I meant the whole thing. Heroism. Why?"

                "I... to... it falls to me to, to stand up for what's right..." Flying Squirrel faltered, his resolve shaken. The Captain had gone off-script. "People like me, we have to stand up. With great power, comes great..."

                "Yes, yes, I know." The Captain interrupted him for a second time. "It's just... would you say you had 'great power'? I mean, honestly?" Flying Squirrel's mouth fell open. "I don't mean to be rude." the villain added, worried he had hurt the young man's feelings.

                "That's not for me to say." came the solemn reply. "Heroes don't brag."

                "How convenient." The Captain sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "I just mean... don't you ever wonder if you wouldn't be better off doing something else?"

                Flying Squirrel pursed his lips tightly, and a vein on his forehead began to stand out.

                "You can't get inside my head, Kamikaze. Fighting evil is my destiny."

                The Captain met his gaze, and saw in his defiant young eyes the burden of struggles past, and of struggles to come, and a familiar exhaustion. Grudgingly, he smiled.

                "If you say so." He stood again, crossing the room to stand behind his captive. "You talk a jolly good game, Flying Squirrel, I'll give you that." The hero sat, dumbstruck, as the Captain began to unfasten his restraints. "Now, talk is all well and good, and I wouldn't presume to know the first thing about superheroism. But, I will tell you something that a man who is very, very good at what he does once told me."

* * *

                "I must say, sir, this comes as quite the surprise. Are you not concerned that Flying Squirrel will foil your plans; knowing, as he now does, the fiendish intricacies of your design?"

                The Captain and Milton stood side by side at the study window, through which they could see the bewildered superhero effecting his escape across the grounds. The Captain watched him perform an unnecessary combat roll on the lawn, and then step on his own cape as he stood up, causing him to tumble over backwards.

                "No, not really, Milton." He turned from the window and sat down behind his desk. "Besides, I'm not so sure I'll be going ahead with my nefarious scheme after all." He looked up at his elderly butler's familiar face.

                "I see, sir. And what will you do instead?"

                "I haven't decided yet." The Captain leaned back, his hands behind his head. Milton raised his eyebrows.

                "Well, how terribly exciting. I daresay this calls for a celebration, sir. Shall I fetch you a drink?"

                "A splendid idea, Milton, that would be marvellous." The Captain watched his butler reach across the desk and pick up the brandy decanter. "I think perhaps a nice glass of orange juice. That is, if you wouldn't mind checking the pantry." Milton placed the decanter back down on the desk and smiled.

                "Very good, sir."

Tom Hunt